


Breaking

by antheiasilva



Series: Emotional one-shots [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Qui-Gon needs a hug, death bed request, non-Sith Dooku, oblique depictions of abusive childhood/padawanhood, parent estrangement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 17:25:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17063963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheiasilva/pseuds/antheiasilva
Summary: Even on his cursed deathbed, Dooku could not leave him be.He waits. He knows he is stalling. He knows there is little time left.





	Breaking

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the amazing LuvEwan for being an excellent and inspiring beta!

Qui-Gon stares out across the grey cityscape of Coruscant's pale winter. The duracrete of the garden's low wall is cold and smooth beneath his hands. He takes a long, deep breath. The icy air is almost a balm to the turmoil burning in his breast. The white wisps of his exhale disappear almost instantly. He wishes his thoughts were so easily dissolved.

_Long now it will not be. Go to him you should. Go to him you must. Not the Jedi way, revenge is._

Anger heats him like no cloak ever has. He does not feel the chill in the air. He does not feel the ice under his hands as he twists icicles off a lone branch. The wood cracks under his grip.

 _Destruction is not the Jedi way either,_ Master _._ Even in his memory, the word is a sneer.

He waits. He knows he is stalling. He knows there is little time left.

He does not care.

He knew this day would come.

Even on his cursed deathbed, Dooku could not leave him be. Ever demanding and imperious, his old master, if weathered by age.  

He will be free soon.

He will be free soon and there is no joy in it.

Only desolation.

He grits his teeth against the unbidden memories of his lost padawanhood that flicker across his mind's eye.

 

A sharp stare that steals his breath.

The twitch of a dark mouth before a hail of words.

A clenched hand before he shatters.

 

And silence.

 

His desolation is familiar: a hollow, echoing cavern that once sheltered sparks of anger from winds of fear and submission.

Qui-Gon cracks another branch. The wood splinters and crumbles. He lets the fragments fall to ground, sinking and hidden in the snow.

Now he bows his head in thought, not obedience. He is not afraid anymore. He hasn't been for years.

Still, he will not go.

Not Yoda, or Mace or Shaak Ti or Plo or even his beloved Obi-Wan will convince him.

Obi-Wan would not try: he knows better.

He will wait here in the cold, churning memories and breaking ice, while Dooku slips away in a medical bed, waiting for reunion and absolution that will never come.

Maybe, Qui-Gon thinks darkly, his former master will finally taste regret and shame. Maybe he will shed tears. Maybe he will compose an apology and clutch it desperately to his breast, waiting. Just in case.

Maybe he feels _sorry_.

It does not matter. It is too late.

Qui-Gon will make sure of it. He has never had power over his master before. He _will not_ enjoy it. He will _not_.

But he will wield it.

 

Boots crunch the snow behind him. In the force, Obi-Wan is sunlight and green earth and a blue horizon.

He turns. Obi-Wan's face is grim, but his eyes are kind.

Obi-Wan's eyes are always kind.

He reaches for his lover, slides his cold fingers under his cloak, around his back, and settles them into the heated space between Obi-Wan's tabard and tunic.

Obi-Wan grips his shoulders gently. His lips are pressed into a tight line. He nods.

A sob escapes Qui-Gon as he sinks into Obi-Wan's grasp, folds against his chest and buries his face in the warmth of Obi-Wan's neck.


End file.
